Great Form
by bettyboopdarlin
Summary: Derek Hale is working under his shady brother Tristan, and was forced into a teaching job at Beacon Hills. However, his life gets even more complicated with his acquainting of Stiles, a high school student


"I saw that," a smooth voice murmured suddenly.

"Fuck off," Derek snapped, jerking his head to the side, glancing sideways at the figure emerging from the dark.

The man scoffed and stepped toward Derek, rolling his eyes. "Nice to see you, too, bro."

Derek ignored the taunting lilt to his words, and refocused his eyes to the problem at hand. It was dark out, and the damn streetlamp wasn't bright enough for this. Relying on touch alone, Derek fumbled around the trunk for the cables. He groped the darkness, shoving away empty grocery bags and what felt like a shirt or two.

_Why keep clothes in the trunk? _Finally, he touched something thin and cool—the cable. _Wouldn't hurt to organize this piece of shit car, _he thought to himself, irritated. He slammed the trunk shut and sauntered to the front of the jeep. Yanking open the driver's blue door, he popped the hood open. He didn't bother closing the door as he stepped away to prop the hood up. Rubbing his eyes, red and swollen from past sleepless nights, Derek squinted at the man leaning against the jeep, cavalier. The hood was already ajar, held up by the man's outstretched arm.

"What do you think you're doing?" Derek fought the urge to shove this man into the street.

The man took a step back and relinquished the hood to Derek. Holding a hand out in mock-defense, he answered, "I can't help my little brother jumpstart his jeep?"

Straightening out the cables, Derek responded in a clipped tone, "Not when it means owing you a favor in return. I'm done being your bitch, Tristan."

Tristan laughed loudly, voice echoing throughout the barren parking lot. "C'mon, Derek, you and I both know that's a lie. Besides, you'll get something out of it this time."

Derek rolled his blue eyes and pressed down on the clamps, waiting. Tristan couldn't hold a silence for long.

"If you run this errand for me, I won't tell anyone about your pedophilic obsession with the high school student."

Derek started, nearly dropping the clamps onto the pavement. He slowly turned his head, eyes blazing. He met Tristan's equally blue stare, lips forming a thin line. He bared his teeth, emitting a low growl.

His brother clicked his tongue disapprovingly, "Now, now, Derek, that's a bit savage isn't it? I thought you'd worked past your animal instincts." The condescending tone accompanying the images drawn from Tristan's words bore into Derek's dwindling patience. "There's no need to deny it, I saw you two. Just think of the scandal," Tristan flashed a devious smile, swaggering back to the jeep. "High schooler and teacher? I can see the headlines now, can smell the court case brewing." Tristan sighed with pleasure at the deliciousness of the situation. He had Derek at the short and curlies—_literally. _

Derek exhaled noisily, knuckles white on the cables, which have yet to make it to the engine. Voice shaking with suppressed rage, Derek hissed, "Go fuck yourself, Tristan. I did what you wanted already. I took the fucking high school job and you said I was out." Derek's fury was rising to the surface. "You need to leave, before I hook these up to the wrong thing."

Frowning, Tristan clicked his tongue again. "Again with the savagery? Save it for the boy, that brand of flirting won't work with me. Now, moving past this nonsense, I suspect you'll need money to make the run. I know being a gym teacher doesn't have…its benefits. Financially speaking, that is," he winked, flashing a wicked smile to Derek again, reveling the rage that consumed his younger brother. As a child, it was Tristan's favorite pastime to enrage his sibling; baiting him until he snapped. Derek was close to snapping now. _Wonderful, _he thought gleefully.

Derek thrust the clamps into the engine and faced Tristan again. His expression had fallen from boiling rage to defeat. _That was easier than expected._

"What do you want," It was more of a statement than a question. Derek's eyelids shut, trying to mask the pain.

Tristan grinned widely and pulled an envelope from out of his jacket. "Simple. I want

Derek woke the next morning to his alarm blaring. It was 5:30 am, and he didn't remember falling asleep. All he could remember were foggy dreams of a demon with wolf teeth and blue eyes following him wherever he turned. He sat up in bed and dropped his head into his hands. How did everything get so out of hand? How did he let his stupid brother talk him into this again? He'd only moved to Beacon Hills nine months ago, replacing some deadbeat P.E. teacher that couldn't make it to work sober, by request of Tristan. He did his part, and Tristan promised he'd leave him alone. Derek planned to finish the year, maybe stay on; he'd planned to have the fucking choice. He rubbed his face, feeling his rage boil to the surface.

Derek dragged himself to the shower and tried to drown his thoughts in the scalding water. He found himself reliving the days with _him,_ he who had changed everything.

It was last September, first day of school. Upon entering the building, he immediately regretted agreeing to do this, and not for the first time. Every time he allowed himself to get mixed in with Tristan, he got fucked over. Even now, Derek didn't know the first thing about teaching, or interacting with students. He was fresh out of college with a degree in fitness management. He didn't want to imagine what Tristan did to get him this job. The school must have been desperate. Although, at least he'd ended up as a gym teacher, so if he had the urge to snap any necks it wouldn't be too uncommon. Thankfully, he didn't have to deal with being a health teacher also. He shuddered at the thought of teaching these little shits about the reproductive system or how to use a condom. What did a gym teacher teach high school students anyway? Derek was at a loss.

Throughout the day, e mostly had just let the kids talk and mess around while he rambled off his "syllabus." What kind of P.E. teacher needed a syllabus, anyway? The kids didn't care what they were doing, so long as it wasn't reviewing puberty videos. The day went fairly well; he hadn't killed anyone, so that was a good sign. There were a few kids that provoked the feeling, but he'd managed to contain himself. Derek had to keep reminding himself that he _needed_ to be here, to finally be free, which anchored his irritation.

He was rambling on about his "code of conduct" when a kid's voice rang out above the others. "Someone needs to sex me _now. _Like _right now!"_

A hush immediately came over the gym, every face turning to the source of the voice. It was clear who had said it, the boy in the center of the crowd, chocolate eyes wide and mouth agape. A boy standing next to him, his friend—McCall, Derek recognized—took a step away, trying to escape the embarrassment. Derek couldn't remember who the boy was, however. As the entire class began to howl with laughter, the boy tried to save himself. He stuttered, "Um, well, no, okay I know how that sounded but, um, I was just, uh, rehearsing for this-this the upcoming school musical. Yeah. You know, um, Spring Awakening. It's, uh, it's about…sex…you know…" With every word, the boy's hands flailed around, grabbing the air for ideas it seemed. He realized how unconvincing his story was and pursed his lips in response to the group's cackling. He closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip, exhaling slowly, waiting for the moment to pass. Derek wouldn't have said the boy was embarrassed necessarily, merely aware of the suffocating awkwardness he'd dropped himself into. Derek glanced at his clipboard to identify the kid. _Stilinski _was his last name, and the only name Derek could even try to pronounce. Poor kid's first name looked like a string of letters randomly thrown together some drunken night. Eventually the students had stopped obviously laughing at Stilinski and returned to their conversations, glancing over at McCall and Stilinski periodically. Derek watched as McCall returned to Stilinski's side and chuckled when Stilinski punched him in the arm. They were clearly very close friends. They reminded Derek of his high school friend, Isaac. God that was a long time ago.

Derek didn't bother to finish the syllabus. He didn't care, they didn't care. In fact, he was much more interested in watching Stilinski. The kid was tall and lanky, with meat hooks for hands that never ceased to movie. He had dark brown hair fashioned in that messy, just-out-of bed look and bright brown eyes. His movements were hyper and jerky, and his face was very expressive. Observing the interaction between him and McCall, Derek sensed Stilinksi was distressed. Girl problems? Or lack thereof? Derek was focusing so much on Stilinski's movements that he didn't notice McCall look over to him. McCall realized Derek was staring and elbowed Stilinski. Derek's eyes met Stilinski's brown ones, causing Derek to feel a sharp blow to his stomach. He gasped and broke away from Stilinski's gaze.

Suddenly, the bell dismissing class trilled and Derek was overwhelmed by the masses. There were bodies everywhere, pushing, shoving, laughing, yelling. He couldn't make out any of their faces, and was hyper-aware of their clamoring steps on the hardwood floor. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge between his nose and eyebrows. He definitely needed to speak to the students about _personal space_. When the crowd had dissipated, Derek opened his eyes to see a few stragglers left in the gym. Among them were Stilinski and McCall, both taking their time. Seeing them prickled Derek's irritation and he called out, "All right, class is over, get on outta here." His voice boomed and bounced off the walls, adding a harsher tone to his words. Heads bowed, the stragglers evacuated, with Stilinski and McCall on their heels. As they shuffled by, Derek met Stilinski's eyes again and had the same stabbing sensation as before. _What the fuck?_ Derek narrowed his eyes at Stilinksi, who then stumbled on his feet and pitched forward into Derek. Stilinski steadied himself, using Derek's chest as support. His long fingers pressed against Derek's pectoral, "Holy shit, man, you're fit. Like," He took a step back for a better look, not removing his hand. "_Shredded,_" he finished, appreciatively. "Scott, bro, come see this, he's more fit than _you_."

McCall—Scott—stepped away from the teacher and boy, eyebrows raised in shock. "Um, Stiles, we should go…" His eyes widened with every second his friend held his hand on Coach Hale's chest.

"Yeah, in a sec, just as soon as Coach here tells me how he maintains this form," Stiles whistled, "I mean, _damn_."

Derek had had enough. He wrapped his hand around Stile's pale wrist and lifted it from his body and off to the side, twisting it so that Stiles started spewing, "Ow-ow-ow-ow-okay-okay-ow-ow-ow-sorry-ow-sorry-sorry." Derek released Stiles' wrist slowly and glared at the boy. "Do _not_ touch me," he said, borderline threateningly.

Stiles massaged his wrist, which blazed red. He sucked in his cheeks, "Yes, sir, I definitely learned my lesson. Deepest apologies, Scott and I will just, uh, see ourselves out…" Stiles tried to maneuver around Derek without touching him again, although the boy was all limbs. As he passed, Derek jerked his face out in front of Stiles, causing him to jump away, "Oh my—_god,_" he gasped, startled. He grabbed Scott—who hadn't moved—by the arm and they both stumbled out the doors.

Derek didn't relax until he was sure the boys had left the building. Exasperated, he let out a long-suffering sigh. He asked himself again if teaching was the best career path for him. If the rest of the year were like this, then he would definitely take up his sister's offer of that freight loading position.

The following weeks passed by uneventfully. Derek avoided direct contact with his students; resorting to open the equipment storage closet during class time, so the kids chose what they wanted to do. Most of the time the class divided into lacrosse teams and practiced random drills. Derek vaguely wondered if the school had any major sport team, but the thought evaporated as he abruptly realized what the date was. "Shit," he muttered to himself, and consulted his clipboard to confirm the date. September 27th. "Shit, shit, shit," he closed his eyes, feeling the outdoor wind rustle his dark hair. In order to provide his end of the bargain, Derek needed to deliver a package to Isaac. Isaac was one of Tristan's guys, and if Derek didn't pay up, he would never be free of his older brother's shady operations. He still had about a half an hour left in his day, which gave him about two hours to prepare everything before the meeting time. Knowing this did not relieve Derek of the anticipation, however. With each minute, he became more and more tense, cracking his knuckles to somehow distract himself from the impending task.

Across the field, Stiles stood on the sidelines, watching the lacrosse drills transpire. He cheered as Scott tore up the field, making an amazing shot into the goal. Scott was one of the best lacrosse players in their class, apart from Jackson Whittimore, who was a total dickweed in Stiles' opinion. Ever since Scott had emerged as a valuable player, Jackson had gone all One Tree Hill on Scott over it. The hazing was getting to a ridiculous point, and the extent that Jackson went to sabotage Scott was absurd. Last week, Jackson had convinced his friend Danny to "forget" to return Scott's gloves, causing Scott to play barehanded. Jackson took great joy in this, and used every chance to crush Scott's hands. Thinking about it made Stiles' blood boil. Being Scott's best friend, it was Stiles' job to torment and maim him, not Jackson's.

As Scott made another shot, Stiles noticed Coach Hale standing across the field, expression murderous. Alarm shot through Stiles has the coach made eye contact with him. Hopefully Stiles' didn't have anything on his face to provoke him…he didn't think his wrist could take another meeting with the Coach.

Stiles couldn't wrap his head around this guy. He was the most un-teacher-like person ever. He clearly hated _everyone_ and didn't give a shit about this job. Not to mention, this guy was way too young to be a serious full-time teacher. He was probably twenty-two at the oldest. The coach was big and scary, of course, but definitely not old like the rest of the teachers at Beacon Hills High. Except for Ms. Blake, but she was on a whole different level of un-teacher-like. Stiles wondered what could have possessed Coach Hale to decide to be here.

Stiles looked away from the coach, trying to be nonchalant. He tried to focus again on the game, but his eyes kept twitching back to the coach, who stood, cracking his knuckles, a perfect picture of a tense man. Who peed in his Cheerios this morning, anyway? Actually, Stiles hadn't seen the man smile once since school started. _How could anyone be so pissy? I'll ask Lydia, I bet she'd know._ Stiles smirked at his own joke. Lydia Martin was the crabbiest person he'd ever met.

"Hey, Stiles, are you listening to me?" Scott's voice interrupted Stiles's thoughts.

"Oh, yeah, totally," he smiled crookedly.

"Really?" Scott raised his eyebrow and pushed his black hair from his eyes. "What should I do then?"

Stiles narrowed his eyes and sucked in his cheeks. Bobbing his head, he answered, "Yeah, you should definitely do the right thing."

"Okay, good, I'm glad you think so, because I was worried—" Scott's words formed some kind of story about him and this new girl Allison. Stiles didn't need to be paying attention; he'd heard all of Scott's ramblings about her. Scott was a great guy, was good-looking, and intelligent when he wanted to be. Stiles knew that they'd end up dating sooner or later. The coach's whistle halted Scott's train of words, signaling the end of the day. Through the throng of sweaty bodies swarming around him and Scott, he saw the coach sprinting off the field, clipboard clutched to his side. As scary as the dude was, Stiles had to admit the coach had great form.

Derek jumped into his car, threw the clipboard, and sped out of the school parking lot. The sooner he ran this job, the better.

Arriving at his apartment, Derek threw his keys on the kitchen counter. He did it will a little too much force and they ended up sliding off the marble onto the floor. Not bothering to pick them up, he raced to his bedroom and threw his mattress from the bedsprings, revealing a large yellow envelope underneath. He gathered it up and checked the seal. It hadn't been tampered with, _good_. This means he can just deliver it to Isaac and be done—until next month, but he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

Derek still had a little over an hour until the meeting time, but he was too tense to sit and wait that long. He looked around his room, which was mostly barren, and now looked like a disaster due to the uprooted mattress. He considered putting it back, but his patience roared in defiance and he ended up leaving the apartment altogether.

Derek Hale drove around aimlessly, obsessively checking the time on his dash. Derek was a proud man. He would never admit to being scared or nervous, emotions that he deemed as "weak." He'd spent his whole life fighting against that concept. He was a strong man, a brave man; he did not tolerate anticipation at all. He was made of pride and anger, without much in-between. This arrangement brought out the worst of Derek Hale, because he was nervous, he lashed out at any innocent bystander.

Tristan arranged for the meeting place to be at the Beacon Hills local coffee shop. Derek was not one for public appearances, or coffee for that matter, so that did not help relieve his anger. He entered the building with a _ring_ as the door swung open. Most of the tables were filled with students and young adults, gabbing, slurping, and laughing. Derek was met with that familiar feeling of being overwhelmed by noise, and he fought the urge to close his eyes. He approached the counter, remembering what Tristan had instructed. Since Isaac and he had never met, Tristan told Derek to order a caffé Americano—whatever the fuck that was—so that Isaac would know who he was. Derek thought it was a shitty plan—_anyone could order a caffé Americano for christ's sake—_but he was obligated to order, regardless. He stood at the front, staring at the back of an employee, who was bent over a machine.

"Come on, please? Please just turn on? For me? You know I love you, you're my favorite percolator, I'd do anything for you if you just turned on…" The employee was muttering to the machine. Too annoyed to find this amusing, Derek cleared his throat loudly.

The boy spun around, "Oh-hi there, sir, how are—" The boy stopped short, mouth agape. Derek had been trying to control his violent urges that he hadn't recognized the boy at first. However, the slack-mouth expression brought him back to the first day of work. _Stilinski._ Derek groaned internally. He _so_ did not have the patience to deal with this idiot today.

"Caffé Americano." Derek didn't give Stiles a chance to recover and finish his spiel. "Now," he added, when Stiles still hadn't shut his mouth.

Suddenly the boy jerked his shoulders and blinked, his expression still shocked. "Sure thing, uh, coach…" his voice trailed off. As he grabbed a cup from behind the counter, he glanced up at Derek. "Wouldn't have pegged you as a caffé Americano kind of guy, coach…or even a coffee kind of guy. You scream tea, though, you sure you don't want any tea? We have a thousand flavors, even coffee flavored if you wanted, but that would defeat the purpose of you ordering coffee right? Maybe if we had a caffé Americano flavored tea, now wouldn't that be great—" Stiles hadn't made any other effort to make the drink, he was too busy rambling about _what?_

Derek place his hands on the counter and leaned forward. He found himself nose-to-nose to Stilinski, staring into those bright brown orbs. "Stilinski, I'm going to need you to do a few things here. First, you're going to shut up. Second, you're going to make me my drink. Third, you're going to shut up."

Stiles' lips parted and his breathing hitched, from fear, most likely. Derek's voice was low and dark and—although, admittedly sexy—it raised the hairs on the back of Stiles' neck. He cleared his throat and answered in a shaky voice, "Um, well, actually sir, I'm not in school right now so I'm afraid you don't have that kind of authority over me here…uh, sir," he added hastily, and continued, "And frankly I think it would be in your best interest to order the tea. You're a health conscious man, am I right? I mean you're a gym teacher and all and we all know how fit you are," he laughed nervously. "But uh, coffee really is bad for you and can lead to dependency problems and stunt your growth, and I heard of this one time a guy's balls—" At this point, Derek had enough of Stiles' ramblings and grabbed the collar of his shirt. Today was _not_ the day to mess with Derek.

In that low, scarily-level voice, Derek murmured, "You're going to make me that drink _now,_ or I'm going to rip your throat out. With my teeth." Noses practically touching, Derek offered Stiles the widest smile, flashing all of his white, straight teeth. Stiles wasn't prepared for such a perfect smile from such a perfect menace and his heart leapt to this throat. He was surprisingly able to garble out a "yes, sir" to Derek and fumbled around, all knees and limbs, to make the drink as quickly as possible. If Derek weren't so tense, he would have found this reaction amusing. He loved being scary.

Finally, Stiles was ready and pushed the drink to Derek. "Uh, that'll be four-four seventy-five." He swallowed nervously, and massaged his neck, undoubtedly remembering Derek's threat. Hopefully the price didn't offend him as much as Stiles did. Derek slapped a ten on the counter and slid it to Stiles—time was ticking. He flashed his beautiful, yet menacing smile at Stiles and muttered, "Keep the change." He moved away from the counter, leaving Stiles to catch his breath.


End file.
